The isolation spins its mysterious cocoon, focusing the mind on one place, one time, one rhythm - the turning of the light. The island knows no other human voices, no other footprints. On the Offshore Lights you can live any story you want to tell yourself, and no one will say you're wrong: not the seagulls, not the prisms, not the wind.

Every end is the beginning of something else.

Scars are just another kind of memory.

You don’t think ahead in years or months: you think about this hour, and maybe the next. Anything else is speculation.

Such a mysterious business, motherhood. How brave a woman must be to embark on it.

Once a child gets into your heart, there’s no right or wrong about it.

Sometimes life turns out hard, Isabel. Sometimes it just bites right through you. And sometimes, just when you think it's done its worst, it comes back and takes another chunk.